


Vikings Imagines Collection [SFW]

by eratothemuse



Series: Vikings Imagines [1]
Category: Vikings (TV)
Genre: Drabble Collection, F/F, F/M, Gen, Imagines, Imagines Collection, M/M, Multi, Safe For Work, sfw
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-09
Updated: 2021-01-04
Packaged: 2021-03-07 22:28:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 6,336
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26915149
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eratothemuse/pseuds/eratothemuse
Summary: This is a collection of imagines [from my blog on tumblr - thranduilsperkybutt] involving the Vikings characters! Only SFW fic is in this collection, so enjoy! Any additional warnings will be posted in each chapter's Notes.
Relationships: Floki (Vikings)/Reader, Floki (Vikings)/You, Floki/You, Floki/reader, Hvitserk (Vikings)/Reader, Hvitserk (Vikings)/You, Ivar (Vikings)/Reader, Ivar (Vikings)/You, Ragnar Lothbrok/Reader, Ragnar Lothbrok/You, Rollo (Vikings)/Reader, Rollo (Vikings)/You, Sigurd (Vikings)/Reader, Sigurd (Vikings)/You
Series: Vikings Imagines [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1963858
Comments: 2
Kudos: 59





	1. Floki - Imagine being one of Floki’s servants who was taken by the Vikings during a war on your home. You been with him for a while, and started to develop feelings for him. One day, you travel into town with him to help get supplies...

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: Canon-typical violence & mentions of slavery

Gif source: [Floki](https://megmeg-chan.tumblr.com/post/627173620366655488)

> _Imagine being one of Floki’s servants who was taken by the Vikings during a war on your home. You been with him for a while, and started to develop feelings for him. One day, you travel into town with him to help get supplies, when a random Viking starts harassing you. Right before it gets bad, Floki come out of nowhere and saves you. Come to find out, he’s developed feelings for you, too._

——— _Request for[@vampiratesgrl](https://tmblr.co/m55wp_L9W04Np9MEA1iM9Sg)_———

Kattegat was bustling even more than usual, filled to the brim with unfamiliar faces in the wake of Ragnar’s intentions of a return to England by the aid of King Horik. Floki had spent months fashioning boats, only the best for his old friend, while you had filled that time with minding your master’s bidding to aid his endeavors, as you have since you were brought to this place.

This was to be one of your last trips into the city in search of supplies before the raiding party set out, but now, you worried you might not make it home at all.

Cornered, is what you were, between a man whose name you did not know and the outer side of the great hall. Sounds of the feast from within are sure to drown out any sound from without, and you curse yourself for not being more aware of the man before now, when it was too late.

After all, you were not a free woman, and this man could do as he pleased without consequence, save for a repayment to Floki, should he kill you.

“Please,” you try envoking your master’s name, which at times would be enough to prevent any obstruction of your duties, though you are unsure as to whether it will matter at all to this man, who is so clearly a raider of King Horik’s party, “my master, Floki, the boatbuilder, is in wait of my service.” You hold up your basket of fruit a bit higher as the man advances further towards you, seemingly uncaring of your obligations.

“I should not keep him waiting for you long,” sends a shiver of fear down your spine, and you feel a scream bubbling in the back of your throat. Before it can erupt from your sharp inhale when the man grabs your arm, an axe protrudes sharply in the night, glinting by the light of the nearby torches where it sits threateningly at the throat of the raider.

“Is this where you have been?” even the relief at the looming sight of your master is not enough to quell the tense adrenaline simmering in your veins, as you’re released from the grasp of the other viking, as Floki addresses him, “What purpose have you,” he clicks his tongue in annoyance with a tilt of his head, “for interrupting my servant in the midst of her duties like this?”

“You are Floki?” the man asks, to no answer, which seems to anger him, because he gestures towards you dismissively, “She is only a slave, nothing to spill blood over. Lower your axe, friend.”

“Aye, she is, but you and I are far from friends,” Floki hums, “and you will not interfere with her again, or we will be even worse than that, do you understand?“

The man bares teeth, glaring at you as if this were all your fault, but concedes with a nod. Only then, is the axe removed from the column of his neck, and Floki’s hand gestures for you to return to his side.

“Come inside, the feast has not ended,” and he doesn’t need to tell you twice, as you jump to the safety of his side, heart skipping from more than the anxiety of the entire interaction when Floki’s hand comes to rest at your shoulder, guiding you away from the other man and towards the entrance of the great hall.

You dare to say when you are far enough, breathless and shaking under his touch, his eyes catching your own in the moonlight and appearing even more striking with the dark pigment he has painted them with, “Thank you, Floki.”

“Tch,” he huffs, but his grip tightens comfortingly on your shoulder, as he tells you, “Do not wander so far from me. It is not as safe with so many people here that are not with Ragnar.” Then, he admits something you are surprised to hear, slipped so quickly from his lips that you nearly wouldn’t believe he had said it at all, were it not for the way he averts his gaze from yours and releases you in favor of escaping through the mead hall’s doors, “I should not wish for harm to come to you.”


	2. Ivar the Boneless, Sigurd Snake in the Eye - Imagine being a great warrior princess in a loveless arranged marriage to Sigurd, but Ivar grows to have feelings for you, and after Sigurd is killed he takes you as his wife instead.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Nonnie, did I get carried away??? Yes. But I hope you like this, anyway, lol! Even if it is longer than usual. There are time skips.

Gif source: [1](https://megmeg-chan.tumblr.com/post/631562718029185024/lost-in-dark-trails-s%CE%B9g%CF%85rd-%D1%95n%CE%B1k%D1%94-%CE%B9n-%D1%82h%D1%94-%D1%94y%D1%94) | [2](https://megmeg-chan.tumblr.com/post/631566587772731393/philomaela-third-times-the-charm) | [3](https://megmeg-chan.tumblr.com/post/631567006739693568/alessa-10-no-your-real-father-was-ragnar)

> _Imagine being a great warrior princess in a loveless arranged marriage to Sigurd, but Ivar grows to have feelings for you, and after Sigurd is killed he takes you as his wife instead._

——— _Request for anon_ ———

Ivar crawled through the forest underbrush, not far behind his brothers, staying careful to keep quiet as they positioned themselves not far off the main road. There was news of a procession heading down the north road into Kattegat, bannered under that of Sigurd’s soon to be in-laws. This marriage that had been arranged many years ago, back when their father was in need of more men for his undertakings in England, would be soon fulfilled. With, or without, Ragnar’s presence, it seemed.

Ivar figured himself lucky, that it was Sigurd instead of himself who was arranged to marry this girl none of them had ever seen.

“What if she is not like the stories?” Hvitserk whispered breathlessly, grasping onto Sigurd’s shoulder while they both peered around a tree. Biting a grin, he continued, “What if she looks like a troll?”

“Heh,” Sigurd scoffed, “then, I will just tell her you are the one who she is fated to, instead of me, brother.”

“You should be so lucky, to marry even a troll,” smacking Sigurd’s calf with the back of his hand, Ivar called up to them, “she does not need to be beautiful to best you on the battlefield.” Cheekily, he grinned, “Not that it’s hard to do, in the first place.”

“Do not think I won’t kick you—” Sigurd began, only to be interrupted by the harsh shushing of Ubbe, who nodded their attention further up the road, where carts and footmen were emerging from beyond the trees.

“Will you quiet down? There they come,” only a glance was spared for his brothers, “your new wife should be in the first cart.”

And so Ivar watched, waiting within the covert treeline, for a glimpse of this girl of Sigurd’s. All that was known was the stories, most of which boasted her prowess as a warrior, with little guide for what to expect of her appearance. But, she was a princess, and her father a king with many men, so beauty might not matter so much as all that in the end, Ivar supposed.

“There!” the quick word, hushed from Ubbe’s lips, sounds deafening to Ivar’s ears as he strains to see. Hvitserk’s sharp intake of air is all to remind him that he was barely breathing, when he first catches sight of this girl. This striking vision of a girl.

Perhaps, he was not so lucky Sigurd was to be the one to marry her, after all.

* * *

You were breathtaking, is all Ivar can manage to think, when you strike the sword from Hvitserk’s hand, grinning wide in your victory. Chest heaving from your sparring with the Ragnarsson brothers, you offer the blonde your hand, which results in Hvitserk tugging you roughly to the ground to dissolve into your giggles.

“I win!” he grins, as you smack at him.

“That is not fair, Hvitserk,” laughter ringing through the trees, you push up from the dirt. “I already bested you! Did I not, Ivar?”

“You did,” Ivar hums from beyond his drinking glass, teeth emerging behind his smile, “but be careful. I’m sure Sigurd will be ill if you prove yourself a better warrior than him to the rest of us.”

Perhaps he was getting a bit bold with his praises of you, but any accusation of flirtation would be worth the way you reciprocate it.

“Ivar,” Ubbe shakes his head, helping Hvitserk up as you move towards the youngest Ragnarsson, reaching to take the mug he offers you.

“What?” Ivar’s grin only widens at the amusement dancing in your eyes, silently egging him on, “It is only true. Sigurd neglects his fighting like he neglects his wife, preferring his oud to both, so it is no wonder she should be better—”

The axe whizzing by his hand just barely misses his fingers, taking the cup there instead, and snapping Ivar’s gaze towards Sigurd’s glare, but your scolding gasp of your husband’s name cuts in before things can escalate further than that.

But Ivar’s hand remains as clenched as his jaw, tight along the axe in his lap.

* * *

He was dead. Your husband was dead.

_Sigurd_ was dead.

You had not expected to be widowed so soon, but even more than that, you didn’t expect to be so bafflingly _indifferent_ to it. Truthfully, Sigurd hadn’t laid with you in the months since your wedding night. Avoidance of one another had come to be your particular expectation when it came to your marriage to him, as any hope of developing some deep love within this arrangement dwindled.

At least, not for Sigurd.

Maybe, your affinity for Ivar had not helped your marriage any, but you could never have anticipated it would play even a small role in the total annihilation of it.

Ivar had looked just as shocked as the rest of you, when he killed him. Axe to the heart, thrown so quick it seemed almost unreal with your disbelief, until the red blossom of blood seeped through the fabric of Sigurd’s shirt.

And he said he hadn't meant to do it, but none of you were sure of that.

It had been a haze, a blur, as you lived through the shock of it, and, for the first time since you had been married, you avoided the youngest Ragnarsson. You had known he had a temper— _of course, you had known_ — but you never quite feared it, until now. That, you realize now, was foolish, and an underestimation of him.

Perhaps you were still underestimating him, because in the depths of your soul, you wanted to believe him when he said, “You have to believe me, I would never hurt you.” But he looks so sincere, pushing up to where you sat in the midst of this field you had sparred in not long before setting out to avenge his father’s death. Adjusting his legs, Ivar settles beside you, blue eyes pleading and brimmed with tears, “No one believes me, but you _have_ to.”

If you told him you did, it would sound like the lie that it is, so you stay silent.

Taking a shaky breath, before staring into his desperate gaze with your own uncertainty, “With Sigurd dead, my father will call me back home. We did not have any children,” you were trying to change the subject, as much as you were trying to believe him, watching his brow furrow with more trouble, “so he will probably remarry me to another alliance, and recall his men from here. After all, Ragnar is dead and avenged.”

“You cannot go,” Ivar looks like he genuinely might cry, this time, pounding his fist into the dirt beside him as he chokes. “Floki is leaving, too, and if you leave, I will be truly alone.”

“Ubbe and Hvitserk—”

“Don’t believe me either!” Ivar bites, frustration raising in his tone, and you flinch before you can help yourself, which just makes him look even more upset.

“I have no reason to stay in Kattegat, Ivar,” you say softly. “It won’t be my decision to make, when my father hears of Sigurd’s death.”

There’s silence for what feels like the longest time. Simply the rustling of the trees overhead and the chirping of the wildlife further in, as you rip grass from the ground and throw it in as much frustration as seemed to be swirling in his eyes.

Until, he murmurs something so soft you can barely hear it. Your gaze snaps to him, breath catching in your throat, uncertain if you’ve heard him right.

“Ivar?”

“Marry me, then,” he repeats, looking more vulnerable than you’ve ever seen him, and equally as upset. Desperate, almost, “If you marry me, you won’t have to go.”


	3. Hvitserk - Imagine you’ve always been the best of friends with Hvitserk and you sneak away together all the time to goof off, the one day he tries to kiss you and you find out that he’s actually been in love with you this whole time.

Gif source: [1](https://megmeg-chan.tumblr.com/post/631655193002557440/vikingshistory-hvitserk-vikings-513) | [2](https://megmeg-chan.tumblr.com/post/631563442108727296/charlesluciano-margretheisallofus)

> _Imagine you’ve always been the best of friends with Hvitserk and you sneak away together all the time to goof off, the one day he tries to kiss you and you find out that he’s actually been in love with you this whole time._

——— _Request for anon_ ———

Ubbe pulls Sigurd and Ivar away from each other once more, ending their childish fighting in the middle of the great hall, allowing Aslaug to continue her presidence over the issues of the people of Kattegat once more. Hvitserk is barely paying attention, from where he leans against a pillar on the side of the room, picking the stray dirt from beneath his nails. Gods, he was _bored_.

Catching your eye from across the room, he’s relieved at the sight of your pointed stare. It’s one he’s seen many a time before, and the fact that you slip out the open door at the front of the hall is all the cue he needs to follow but a moment afterwards.

The cool autumn air whips around his face, shifting the stray hair of his braids only slightly as he checks the nearly vacant exterior for any sign of where he should follow. The familiar signal this time, is the fur of your cloak, strewn over the nearby railing of the small stall of livestock to be slaughtered for this evening’s feast, and leading further along the side of the building.

Hvitserk takes it up as he passes, moving until the next pathway’s intersection, where a firm clap of hands on either side of his ribs causes him to startle as your laughter rings from behind him, “Are you even trying to pay attention, my friend? It is too easy to sneak up on you.”

He grunts in faux annoyance, holding out your cloak for you to take, “You’re going to scare me to death, one of these days, you know?”

“Oh, a son of Ragnar Lothbrok cannot be killed so easily,” squinting up at his growing smile, you nod towards the stables. “Come on, I will race you to the edge of the woods with that new horse you’ve been bragging about. Show me it’s worth, why don’t you?” You can’t help yourself, from mischievously adding, “That is, if you would not prefer that slave girl’s attention to mine.” Hvitserk cannot hide his slight shock, at your knowing, and you smack him lightly in the chest in retribution for his secrecy, “That’s right— Sigurd has told me all about Margrethe, and why you have been so busy this week, kissing and laying with her.”

“I only did not want you to be jealous, as you are now,” he shoots back teasingly, easily following after your pace towards the stables with the long strides of his own, and you want to smack him again for that comment.

“I’m not jealous, Hvitserk Ragnarsson! Why would I be jealous?” pushing into the stables, you turn on your heel to raise a brow at him.

But he does not let up, instead intruding into your personal space, as his smirk widens, “You have no reason to be jealous, you know. I cannot marry her— she is a slave.”

“What consequence is it to me who you should or should not choose to marry?” you huff, crossing your arms, “I’m only mad that my best friend would not tell me himself— I had to hear from Sigurd! I don’t care if you lay with the girl—”

“You’re bothered by the idea, though.”

“I am not _bothered_.”

He hums with an irritatingly scrutinizing sound, pitched in the back of his throat, “You _sound_ bothered.”

The disgust in the back of your own throat does not sound so convincing, even to your own ears, as the heated flush breaks across your collarbone to creep up your neck, “You’re delaying your defeat— get your horse ready, Hvitserk—”

He leans against a stall, watching after you as you move towards your own horse to strap the saddle down, shit-eating grin wrapped around his lips, “If you want a kiss, too, you only have to ask.”

“A kiss? From you?” you wrinkle your nose for good effect, patting the mane of the steed, “I’d sooner kiss him.”

Boots crunch on the straw beneath your feet, and by the time you glance back towards him, you find he’s closer, looking too sincere to be teasing, and almost a bit hurt, “It would not be so bad, would it?”

“What?” you flounder, stalled by the look in his eyes and the turn the conversation was taking.

“Kissing me?” Hvitserk repeats, tilting his head slightly, “Don’t say you haven’t thought of it?”

“I…” swallowing, you force your eyes back to the straps of the saddle, tightening them appropriately, “don’t know. We are friends, are we not?”

“What does that have to do with thinking about it?”

“It would just be strange to think about, don’t you agree, since we are friends?” you say it too fast, rushed, like a lie, and you’re unsure if it isn’t one, because you’ve definitely thought of kissing him before, but you weren’t about to admit it, should this be another one of his jokes.

“Oh,” it’s a small sound, accompanied by a short nod of his head, before he confesses, “I don’t think it _strange_ to wonder about…” and in his pause, your surprised stare levels upon him, “friends become lovers, sometimes, too.”

Your hands have stilled on the belts of the saddle, turning slightly towards him as you softly murmur, somewhere between a question and a statement of your understanding, “So _you_ have thought of us, as lovers, then?”

He doesn’t give an answer, as his eyes flick from the horse’s saddle to meet your own. In a moment, tensing every nerve in your body with the uncertain understanding of the look in his eyes, all but unreadable save for the hesitant worry set in them.

Then, so fast and so slow all at the same time, he’s dipped his head the short distance to catch your lips with his. Maybe you would have recoiled, if you weren’t so frozen with the shock of it— you’ve never once seen this coming, until now, with his lips soft and pressing against yours. Chaste, almost, until the scratch of his stubble and the graze of his teeth lull you into reciprocating his kiss, and— kissing your best friend doesn’t feel so strange at all, or so wrong, as you’d convinced yourself it would be.

Until he pulls back, and you remember to breathe when his eyes flutter open.

“It is not so hard to picture us as lovers,” Hvitserk breathes against your lips, “when I have loved you for so long as a friend.”


	4. Ivar the Boneless - Imagine being a Christian noblewoman, but catching Ivar’s eye when he sees you on the battlefield fighting just as fiercely as a shieldwoman.

Gif source: [Ivar](https://megmeg-chan.tumblr.com/post/631405743976890368/mary394-my-insane-little-cripple-puppy)

> _Imagine being a Christian noblewoman, but catching Ivar’s eye when he sees you on the battlefield fighting just as fiercely as a shieldwoman._

——— _Request for anon_ ———

At first, from a distance Ivar would have sworn you a man. An effeminate, beardless man, but a man nonetheless, with the bulk to your armor and the ruthless bare of your jaw, but then again, your softer features did get distorted with the blood that had smeared you from head to toe.

Now that he was taking a closer look at this warrior who had held their own against some of the largest in his army, he could see his mistake. Was _laughing_ at his mistake. A _Christian_ woman, fighting his men like _this_? He couldn’t help but laugh at the _entertainment_ of it all.

Whilst most women of your culture were forbidden from things like swordsmanship, or even reading, your father had only daughters, and imparted all his knowledge upon you, both the good and the bad. True, these lands were his, but they were also your home, and by God, you were going to defend them from this heathen army with your last breath. You were as much the fighter as any a man in your father’s fyrd, perhaps even better, and if this was your lot in life to die for your family, then so be it.

That was your resolution, as you cut down another giant of a man with your smaller, quicker blade, before turning at the distant sound of laughter over the screaming and clanging of battle. These were your thoughts, when you saw Ivar the Boneless for the first time, leaning against his chariot as if none would dare touch him, grinning wide with genuine laughter, as if this battle was simply the finest of games to him.

Upon catching your gaze, while you heave breathlessly from your fighting, tilting your head in a peculiar confusion at the man— _why was he laughing_ — he raises his hands towards you with a nod, offering a clap in you direction, as if you were putting on a show.

The anger at his gesture, is what you meet the next heathen with, as they cross their axe with your sword.


	5. Ivar the Boneless - Imagine being the child of a great lord with many lands and you’re set up to be soon married to someone you don’t love, but then the Vikings invade and Ivar the Boneless takes your father’s lands for many months...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (Gender Neutral Reader Requested)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Lmfao sorry this is overdramatic as hell but I hope you like it anyway, love!

Gif source: [Ivar](https://megmeg-chan.tumblr.com/post/631565990781665281/so-is-this-an-interruption-of-your-journey-or-is)

> _Imagine being the child of a great lord with many lands and you’re set up to be soon married to someone you don’t love, but then the Vikings invade and Ivar the Boneless takes your father’s lands for many months, making you serve him, up until a neighboring king retakes the territory, but as the Vikings retreat, you go with them, since you’ve fallen in love with Ivar in that time. (Gender neutral reader requested)_

——— _Request for anon_ ———

The coastal city had been but the edge of your father’s lands, sprawling deep into the countryside of your home. When the Vikings came ashore, you found yourself wishing for the first time in your life that you lived further inland, if only for the few more days of normalcy it would have given you. Your brothers, your father, some of your aunts and uncles, had been captured, if not laid dead, by the time the invasion was through, and the reason you had been left alive was probably more of the fact that you were the meeker of your siblings than much else.

You posed no threat, that was clear enough, when Ivar had ordered you around like a servant, despite your upbringing. Perhaps he liked watching you fumble around, attempting to do things you’ve never once needed to before, or maybe he truly was that ignorant of your culture’s customs. Whatever the reason, you had served him, for months now, and in that time the fear had bled into something else entirely.

It wasn’t normal; you should hate him, after everything. You didn’t dare speak the thoughts that consumed your mind, not to even the few familiar faces that still mingled among the Vikings within the halls of your father’s— now, Ivar’s— castle. There were so many things you should have felt for this invader. This devil with a baby face. Some sense for revenge, or anger, after the way he’s turned your life on its head— _anything_ but the consuming fondness that’s blossomed over the span of your solitude spent with him.

Of course, you still feared him. You would be a fool not to. But, even his rage could not keep you from this result, and you dare to imagine that you’ve seen the same fondness in the way he looks at you, every now and again. Convincing yourself that, maybe, this ache in the center of your chest is shared, because if he did not enjoy your company, _why keep you alive at all?_

And just as quickly as your life had changed when he came ashore, it changed once again as the king’s men came from the mountains. A larger horde than was clearly expected, if the ensuing rushed and angry conversation in that foreign tongue between Ivar and his brothers was anything to go by. You can catch bits and pieces, but only that much, and it’s clear the front was not faring well, but bloody.

You remember those moments now, clear as if it had happened only minutes ago, instead of hours, when Ivar pulled himself up on his crutch, shouting back towards where you had lingered on the edge of the room— as you’ve come to do, should he need you at any moment, “You will wait here for me.” A small glance, before that striking blue of his gaze was out of your line of sight, stalking off towards the closing battle as you wring your hands against the swirling conflict in your gut.

You should have been happy that the king’s men had come. Should be praising your saviors, at this very moment, with the changing tide of the battlefront and the retreat of Ivar’s soldiers to the coastline. To the boats. Back from whence they came.

The ocean laps along the stone as you watch, breathless, choked up with the overwhelming sight of them making way on the water from your view of the balcony to his room— they’re _leaving_. Broken and battered and shouting and hasty, _they’re leaving you here_. Your kinsmen hot on their heels, shooting towards the shields that block arrows from the boats.

From your perch, you see it all. Smell the salt of the sea, wind whipping around your face, irritating your tears, and the adrenaline rushing through your veins. You see _him_. Ivar, bloodied and screaming off the end of a ship. Angry, up until his gaze tears from the men at the shore to the sight of you on the balcony overlooking the ocean. Watching his boat head in your direction, away from the shore, in his path out to sea.

You know you aren’t imagining the sadness in his eyes this time, burning with all the rage of his failed conquest, but dampened with something akin to the same grief you feel, gripping your very soul.

They will say his rule drove you mad. That it was the ruthless savagery of serving Ivar the Boneless that broke you.

It’s the only reason they can come up with, for why you jumped. Hit the water and came back up, gasping with the one breath you manage to gulp down before sinking back under, for him to take you with him. A desperate, shrill, shriek of his name. Begging in a single word. The only logical explanation is madness, for wanting this heathen man over everything you’ve ever known.

Let them say it, how crazy you’ve become, because in that moment, being only Ivar’s servant is better than being traded for a loveless marriage by your father’s hand.

And as you’re pulled aboard by strong arms, sputtering water from your lungs, it’s your captors who you rejoice in seeing, as his crutch thunks on the hard wood, asking, “Why did you do that?” Pulling you to your shaking feet, you can hardly believe it, any more than the stunned bewilderment in his own eyes as he looks at you like you’re just as crazy as your kinsmen will say you are. He glances back towards shore, the fire, the shouting of men in your mother tongue for him to never return, “Well, it is too late to go back.” Ivar mutters it almost regretfully, as if there were ever any other option, but there’s a smile on his lips when he reaches out, wiping seawater from your soaked cheek, “I will have to take you with me, it seems.”


	6. Rollo Lothbrok, Ragnar Lothbrok - Imagine Ragnar teasing Rollo about you, because you’re all that Rollo has been talking about for the last week.

Gif source: [Here](https://megmeg-chan.tumblr.com/post/631657404014133248)

> _Imagine Ragnar teasing Rollo about you, because you’re all that Rollo has been talking about for the last week._

——— _Request for anon_ ———

“Quite something,” Rollo murmurs, watching from further inland as you spar along the beach with Bjorn. Teaching the younger man had become a pastime of yours, and now he was nearly able to best you in battle more often than not, “aren’t they?”

This time, however, the victory is yours, as he lays sprawled along the shore with a bewildered look up at you and a breath he can’t quite seem to catch for the split instant that you laugh down at his surprise.

“Singing praises again, Rollo?” Ragnar side-eyes his brother, knowing smile spreading with the hint of annoyance he earns with, “Seems you cannot speak highly enough, where Bjorn’s newfound teacher is concerned.” Too knowing, for Rollo’s liking, when he jests, “I wonder, why that is?”

Ragnar only chuckles at his brother’s visible discomfort, as Rollo rolls his eyes, “You speak nonsense, like always.”


	7. Ivar the Boneless - Imagine helping Ivar wash the blood off after a battle and he asks you if you are afraid of him.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Blood. It’s kind of long but I don’t care.

Gif source: [1](https://megmeg-chan.tumblr.com/post/631567818428727296/alessa-10-ivar-the-boneless-in-vikings-season-5) | [2](https://megmeg-chan.tumblr.com/post/631566287919874048/philomaela-vikings-ivar-teaser-season-5)

> _Imagine helping Ivar wash the blood off after a battle and he asks you if you are afraid of him._

——— _Request for anon_ ———

He was covered in blood, very little of it his own, while he watched you pour the last of the steaming buckets of water into the tub. He was always watching, scrutinizing, prodding at you like you were a toy for his amusement, which, you figure you aren’t much more than that. A free woman, but his servant nonetheless.

“You’re taking an eternity,” his voice grumbles, carrying throughout the bedchamber, rough against the warmth of the fire crackling behind you. Annoyance has found its home there, in the eyes that seemed to watch your every move. Even without the bloody crimson of his face, that tone would be unsettling enough coming from a man like Ivar the Boneless, but he had never directed his cruelty towards you in earnest. The only lashing you’ve ever received from him was by his tongue, “Hurry up.”

Apologizing, you move quickly to take the rag in hand, kneeling beside the tub as he sinks down in it, his eyes fluttering shut for the moment while he relishes in the warm water, “Is it warm enough to your liking?” Ivar only hums in response, a positive sound in the back of his throat that has you taking the water to run against his brow, through his hair. Minding his eyes, the first layer of blood comes easier than the rest will be. You know you will have to scrub him where it has dried, but you did not wish to agitate him so just yet, when the tension in his shoulders has just seemed to ebb with each stroke of the cloth along his cheekbones, and your fingers in his hair.

Times like these, you feel you can watch him freely. Without the weight of his piercing stare and the wondering of what he must be thinking, you let your eyes roam him, while your hands do what has come to be routine. Practiced, they wipe blood from his brow, while his tongue wets his lips and he shifts further down into the tub. The pink staining of the water does not seem to bother him as he sinks until it reaches just below his chin, and the more you clean him of the blood, the more he looks like the young man he is, rather than the god of war you figure he would like to be.

Suddenly, he winces, a hiss escaping him as he retreats from your hand wiping blood from his jaw. Eyes wide and open, it’s almost an accusatory glare he gives, and you gasp apologetically upon realizing a fine cut lays along the skin of his jaw.

“Forgive me,” averting your eyes, you feel the familiar burning of your embarrassment rise to the skin of your face. Had you not been distracted, you would have realized his wound there, and approached with a gentler touch.

“Be careful,” Ivar corrects, but as he settles, he does not close his eyes like he had before. Watching, once again, and you’re left wondering what he could be thinking, as you implement all your focus on the one area of his face that required a more tender hand.

Every time he looked at you like this, it was as if thick furs had been set atop you. Heavy on your head, constricting you from breathing freely with the intensity of his stare. Nerves creeping up your spine to settle worried thoughts in the back of your head, there was no denying that Ivar’s staring could be enough to fluster you.

“This does not hurt?” you ask as you press the rag back to the scratch along his jaw in a desperate effort to distract from his stare, daring to meet his gaze with yours while you drag gently against the dried blood, taking some of it with you to dunk into the water and repeat. By now, you’ve nearly freed him of what blood had stained his face. There still remained some caked in his hair, at his jaw, and down his neck to where it ended abruptly along the dip of his chest, a ghost of the collar of his armor left outlined in blood against his skin.

And you realize your eyes have wandered, when they reach tainted water, snapping back to his own before quickly focusing on the task of his jaw once more.

Ivar’s frowns dips above his jaw and, so quick you let out an involuntary squeak, his hand catches your wrist in a watery grip, freezing the drag of your cleaning with the firmness of it, “Tell me, why do you stare only when you think I cannot see you?” Stomach nearly jumping to your throat at his question, you can’t bring yourself to respond quickly enough, blinking at him as he sits a little straighter, bringing your hand away from his face, but keeping it in his grip. Effectively trapping you in your lean over the side of the tub, he squints, a hint of anger lacing his question, “Is it because you want a better look at the cripple you serve?” His eyes soften only a little as he studies your own, where the shock of his question must be present enough to earn your denial of his assumption, “Or, is it that I frighten you? Is that it? Are you scared of me?”

You don’t know what the right answer is, as you search him for a hint of what he wants to hear. The chance of finding whatever that is dies in the back of your throat, as you instead settle for the truth, relaxing into his grip with the acceptance of whatever he intends to do with it.

“A fool would not be wary,” you say plainly, but the stern set of his jaw wavers as you continue, “but it is not fear that I feel for you.”

“Do not lie.”

“I am not,” for once, you hold his gaze, until a hint of a smile turns at the corner of his lips.

“Why should you be cautious if you are not fearful of something?” Ivar chuckles like it genuinely amuses him, but his grip on your wrist remains. “Or, have you just called yourself a fool?”

“Caution is of knowledge, not fear.”

“Knowledge?” he repeats the word in a tone that is not quite mocking but somewhere closer to teasing, when he leans towards you. “What is it you think you know of me?”

“It is not what I know of you, but what I know of myself,” seems to catch his interest, as his head tilts, watching you in a way that worry he will not let you back to your work of cleaning him until he has a clearer answer. Still, you shift your weight on your knees and ask, “Shall I return to washing you, then?”

Your suspicion is confirmed when he shakes his head and huffs, “I will let you, if you do not change the subject.” Swallowing, you give him a short nod, as the grip he has on your wrist relaxes and he waves you back to your work along his jaw, “Go on, then.” Dunking the now-cold rag in your hand back into the warmer water, you return to your task, grateful for the distraction from whatever information he is near to wrenching from you, “Well?” A questioning glance in his direction seems to earn that same annoyed furrow of his brow once more, as he gruffly prompts, “You have still not answered my question. What is it you stare at me for when you think I do not notice?”

“I…” you start slowly, mustering up the courage to confess, seeing as he wont let it lie, as you focus on washing a particularly stubborn area along his neck, “find the way you look… pleasing.” Properly uncomfortable by the end of the lame sentence, you don’t dare to meet the stare that he’s burning into the side of your head, instead keeping it firmly on the scrubbing of your hand and the rag on his skin.

“’ _Pleasing_ ,’” he almost sounds surprised, but you still don’t meet his eye to confirm it. You do, however, catch the growing grin that erupts along his face at your flustered confession and ensuing silence in your peripheral. Your refusal to raise your gaze above his jaw is easily conquered by the hand he places at your chin, raising your head to met his gaze. You find him still smiling, but on closer inspection, he looks close to predatory, and you doubt he’s through with you yet, “I suppose I, too, find you _pleasing_ to look at, but that is your job, isn’t it? To _please_ me in any way you can.”


End file.
